


Whose Hearts Are Kind

by shutterbug



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: Caretaking, Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, References to Canon, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:27:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22011031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shutterbug/pseuds/shutterbug
Summary: After the rumble in the orphanage, Deborah tends to both Edmund and her own difficult memories.References to S1E2, “In My Protection.”
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	Whose Hearts Are Kind

**Author's Note:**

> For @treasuredthings, who asked for “subtle kindnesses, Deborah Goren.” This one, I admit, strayed from the prompt, but this is what came out of it. :)

Before she ever met Edmund Reid, Deborah had wielded weapons in defense of herself. She did not make them known—these moments of violence—but her memories resurfaced as she struck the man that had invaded her home and threatened the life of the one that strove to protect them—protect herself, Thomas, and the rest of her children. 

On her last day in Kiev, she had used an iron rod. Her father always used it to stoke the fire, shift the half-burned wood and rekindle embers. She and her little cousin, Noah, crouched low behind an armchair as Russian soldiers kicked at the locked door of the house. 

Deborah gripped her weapon with bloodless hands and waited, imploring Noah to remain silent with a shake of her head. 

Then the lock broke. Two soldiers shouted and stomped into the house. 

Deborah burst from behind the chair and, with a mighty swing, hit one soldier in the back of the head. He crumpled, unconscious. She stunned the other one with a blow to his stomach, seized Noah’s wrist, and ran with him. Out of the house and into the synagogue, where she met the group with whom she and Noah would flee Kiev and head for the west. 

Weeks later, in the French countryside, in an idyllic town with a name she could not remember, she had used a knife. She was in the kitchen of a family that had taken her in—her and the companions that remained with her. Even now, she could recall the heat of the man’s breath and the force of his body as he pressed her against the wall and called her a Jew whore, trying to lift her skirt. 

She stabbed him with the knife in her hand—the knife he hadn’t noticed—and ran for her life. Within a few days, she found herself on a ship to London. 

And now, in that still-new city, she buried the memories of her own horrors—the memories of her own violent acts that haunted her in her quietest moments—and tended to the Inspector that she had initially misjudged. 

“Inspector, I...I am sorry,” she said, raising a clean, damp cloth to the open cut over his eyebrow. 

“You saved my life, Miss Goren. You needn’t apologize.” He winced and inhaled a sharp breath when she touched the cloth to his face. 

“I have encountered enough men with evil in their hearts. By now, I should be able to recognize those whose hearts are kind,” she continued, applying pressure to his wound. She met his eyes and, for a few moments, held his gaze. “Your heart is kind, Inspector. I am sorry I did not see it sooner.” 

“People are complex, Miss Goren. You cannot possibly learn the truth of a person with one glance. And we all have our prejudices.” He closed his eyes as she patted his face with a dry cloth. “Surely you have seen enough of the world to know that.” 

“Indeed, Inspector,” she said, satisfied that the flow of blood had slowed enough to dress with a bandage. “I only need to look into a mirror to be reminded of that.” 

Her words hovered in the air between them as she covered the wound. She forced her mind to remain still and calm, but she could not resist the temptation to return to his eyes, which studied her with gentle curiosity. 

Finally, as he headed toward the door, he spoke with a low whisper. “Do not discredit yourself, Miss Goren. Whatever your complexity, you are a rare find here.” Gratitude and humility ballooned inside her as she watched him carefully place his bowler on his head. “My deepest thanks for your help this evening,” he added, then turned to leave. 

Even before he walked out of sight, she hoped to see his return—-if not under a happier circumstance, than at least a simpler one. 


End file.
